Pam looked around the office with a pit in her stomach. The art show flyers she'd posted the day before were gone.

Every single one.

She couldn't think about the real reason why without bursting into tears in front of the few others who had arrived as early as her today. Michael was one of them, and of course the cameraman was following her every move, so Pam mentally blamed a janitorial miscommunication.

Printing off another short stack, she re-posted them around the office. It didn't matter, really. What was she out, anyway? It wasn't her paper, nor her ink, and they'd lasted until quitting time the day before.

With effort, she talked herself out of putting one on everyone's desk. Was she desperate? Absolutely, but she wasn't certifiable... not yet, anyway.

Jim had to be there. He couldn't not be there. Was he going to be there?

Shrug. She really had no idea. She just knew she couldn't risk him missing it due to ignorance. If he was going to skip her art show, Pam needed to be sure it was a deliberate act on his part. So she sent out an office-wide email, too. Because this was important to her, so why not?

-----

From: pbeesly@dundermifflin.com

To: mscott@dundermifflin.com, dschrute@dundermifflin.com, amartin@dundermifflin.com, kkapoor@dundermifflin.com, jhalpert@dundermifflin.com, kfilippelli@dundermifflin.com, kmalone@dundermifflin.com, rhoward@dundermifflin.com, abernard@dundermifflin.com, pvance@dundermifflin.com, tflenderson@dundermifflin.com, omartinez@dundermifflin.com, mpalmer@dundermifflin.com, shudson@dundermifflin.com, cbratton@dundermifflin.com

Subject: Art show!

Hi everyone! My first art show is tonight at the AFA gallery. Be there or be quadrangular!

Artists for Art

514 Lackawanna Avenue

Scranton, PA 18503

6:30 PM - 8:30 PM

Hope to see you there!

-Pam Beesly

-----

Feels kinda good to actually send an email for once, she reflected.

She was shocked at the number of replies she got. She hadn't expected to hear back from anyone. Kelly would really have loved to be there, but had prior plans (yeah okay). Kevin would have been happy to come, but had a poker game (probably true). Toby was so upset that he couldn't make it, but his daughter had a dance recital (definitely true, she'd overheard him talking about it to Phyllis the other day). Creed asked about the cover charge and rambled about the dude-to-babe ratio of parties nowadays vs. parties in the sixties (jeez what a cretin, but no surprise there).

Phyllis, Oscar, and Michael emailed back to assure Pam they would attend. She nearly choked on a jellybean when she got a reply from Jim toward the end of the day.

-----

From: jhalpert@dundermifflin.com

To: pbeesly@dundermifflin.com

Subject: Re: Art show!

You know what they say about wild horses, Beesly.

-----

It was practically nothing, less than ten words.

Of course, it meant everything.

Barely daring to hope, Pam walked to the ladies' room on shaky legs. When even was the last time she'd seen Jim outside of work?

Suddenly, she remembered. It was the night of the casino benefit.

Oh.

At the last second, she remembered Kevin had trapped the bat in there and re-routed to the ladies' room in Vance Refrigeration. Jim had spent most of the day convincing Dwight that he was becoming a vampire. Even though he was pranking with Karen for once, rather than her… well, he was pranking. And he'd be coming to her art show.

Wondering what to wear, Pam couldn't stop grinning at her reflection.

–

Jim frowned. "I told her I would be there, Karen. I promised."

"You promised me you'd come to dinner with my parents."

She was drawing a line in the sand. He knew it. She knew it. He knew she knew it.

He toed it. "I am coming to dinner with your parents. I just need to be out the door by eight. It's not asking much."

"They really want to go to Benihana," she insisted. "I've talked it up."

He sighed internally. Why did she have to turn every little thing into a fight? "There isn't time. You know how long dinner takes at Benihana, Karen." And how far away it was from the gallery.

Yeah, she knew. That's why they were going there, and not to Osaka as he'd proposed. "They've never been to a hibachi before," she wheedled. "Come on, Jim."

He stared her down. He couldn't not go to Pam's art show. No, he wouldn't not go. He drew a line, for the first time in the history of their relationship. "I'll go wherever you want. But if we're not done by eight, I'm walking out the door. Let me know what you decide."

About that line... Karen saw it, loud and clear. It dovetailed with the firm press of his lips, the stubborn cut of his jaw. She wavered for a moment. Then she quailed. "Alright, how about Osaka… six thirty?"

He smiled gratefully, surprising her with a warm hug. "Thank you. Meet me there?"

She nodded against his shoulder. She could feel him slipping a little further away every day. What the hell was she going to do?

–

Jim tapped his foot impatiently. It was a quarter to seven, and Karen was nowhere to be found. He called her cell for the fifth time in fifteen minutes. Finally, they arrived at nearly seven.

"If I'd known you were going to be this late, I could have gone and come back already," he hissed into her ear with a venom she'd never heard before. "Why didn't you pick up when I called? Why didn't you call?"

"Gimme a break, Halpert. I was driving. It's my parents' first time in Scranton, and they had some trouble finding my place." It came out insincerely because, well, it was insincere.

He narrowed his eyes at her coolly. "I told you I'm leaving at eight."

Karen's eyes widened instinctively in response. That's a first, she thought. 

Out of consideration, Jim stayed twenty minutes past the allotted time. At last, having no choice, he made his excuses. He left two twenties on the table and shook the hands of both Filippellis before hurrying out the door.

Karen stared after his retreating back. She'd tried every trick in the book to call his bluff. For the first time in her life, it hadn't worked. Now the fuck what?

–

Jim threw his car into gear with a lead foot, a heavy hand, and an even weightier sigh. That hadn't been how he'd wanted the night to go. But it wasn't his fault. Karen had known what she was doing. She'd backed him into a corner. He knew it. She knew it. He knew she knew it and... well, he was done backing down.

So fucking done.

He sped out of the parking lot, hugging the curb more closely than he would have if he weren't in such a hurry. With a pop and a hiss, his car listed heavily to the right.

"Son of a fucking bitch," he growled, pulling off the side of the road. Fat fucking chance that Karen would give him a ride after he bailed on dinner.

Moving automatically, he threw open his trunk and pulled out the spare tire. Then he checked his watch. Eight twenty-four.

No time. 

He hauled it back in and swapped his dress shoes for the sneakers in his trunk. He jogged toward Lackawanna Avenue, thanking god they hadn't gone to Benihana.

On the way, he avoided examining his feelings for Pam out of habit. It was just her first art show. He just wanted to see her art. Nothing more, nothing less. At any rate, he had promised to go, and Jim Halpert was a man of his word. He'd promised, so he couldn't not go. If Karen didn't understand that, didn't believe him, well… hopefully now she did.

It's not like he was choosing Pam over Karen. He was only choosing to keep a promise to an old friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

Distracted as he was by thoughts of Karen (and definitely not Pam), Jim failed to see the gaping pothole in the middle of the sidewalk. He neglected to avoid it, wrenching his ankle and splashing muddy water all over his dress pants.

He shook his head with a resigned sigh, checking his watch again as he rounded the corner from Adams onto Lackawanna.

Eight twenty-seven.

He broke out into as much of a sprint as he could manage in his current condition.

–

Pam stood proudly beside her art, confident at least that hers wasn't the worst in the room. And wasn't that something? She certainly thought so. Especially for her first show.

There was actually a pee exhibit, which she couldn't believe was a thing outside of New York City. It was called "Urine Luck" and involved a combination of bottled bodily fluids, rabbits feet, and shamrocks.

Gross. 

Phyllis and Bob Vance were her first visitors. Jointly, they congratulated her. Phyllis liked one piece in particular, a boldly-colored impressionistic take on the office.

Then Oscar showed up, his boyfriend Gil in tow (or was it partner? Pam wasn't sure). They especially liked her blocky, polygonal rainbow, colored with bright oils and coated in a sparkling mica wash. Gil said her work exhibited honesty and courage, and Oscar agreed.

Grinning fondly at the memory, Pam looked up at the wall for the umpteenth time. Yeah, she could see that. Not that she'd brought along her most courageous work, because she wasn't ready for Jim to see it. 

Not that he'd shown up. Wild horses must have gotten in the way after all. But she was okay.

She would be okay.

Especially buoyed as she was by the positive feedback of Phyllis, Bob, Oscar, and Gil.

And her former art teacher, she reminded herself firmly. Mr. Brumley had conveyed his pride at Pam's progression through various media. No more plain sketches and watercolors for fancy new Beesly, not anymore.

She would be okay, because she had to be, and that was that. She was pretty sure she'd at least be able to avoid crying until she got into her car, anyway.

At last, her watch ticked over to eight-thirty. Unbidden, tears prickled her eyes as she reached for a tack.

Hmm. Maybe not so much.

–

Jim crashed through the auditorium doors, shoes squeaking on the linoleum. His gaze darted around. He ignored the eyes on him, everyone's pretty much.

Well, everyone's but Pam's. Where the hell was she, anyway?

He cupped his side, slumping a bit, babying a stitch and his ankle as he continued looking around the room. People were starting to pack up. He looked at his watch. It was exactly half-past eight. He wasn't too late.

Please, god... he couldn't be too late.

"Beesly?" he called out tentatively.

She poked her head out from around a pillar. "Jim?"

Thank god. He swiped his hands over his face, where beads of sweat had collected in an uncomfortable, thoroughly predictable way. Favoring his left foot, he made his way over as quickly as he could. In all honesty, he was moving fairly slowly.

Pam looked him over curiously as he approached. He had black smudges on his cheeks. He was sweating and limping. He looked for all the world like he'd run a marathon. He was wearing tennis shoes with his suit, and there was mud all over his pantlegs.

He was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

Wow, she thought. It looks like wild horses really tried.

She wanted to laugh, to cry, to hug him, to kiss him. He's not yours, she reminded herself sternly, no matter how much of a John Hughes moment this feels like. Even though really, it feels a lot like that. Instead, she unfolded a nearby chair and settled for a thankful, "Wow, you made it."

Collapsing into it, Jim leaned over, rested his forearms on his knees, and took a moment to recover. "Sorry I'm late… wild horses," he explained weakly.

She couldn't hold in her giddy laugh at his reply. She pulled over another chair and sat down, a respectable distance away. "Looks like you ran into a few on your way. What uh… what happened?"

He shook his head ruefully and smiled over at her, the old Jim peeking through. My Jim, Pam thought wistfully before she could stop herself, smiling back.

"Flat tire." Among other things. He shook his head again, not inviting a reply, looking up at the wall to avoid staring at her, still staring at her out of the corner of his eye though. She looked like a dream. He looked like a schlub.

Not that it mattered what he looked like. Pam wasn't his. If anything, Karen was his, so why was he even thinking about it? Moreover, why did he find himself not really wanting to think about Karen right now?

He cleared his throat successfully, his mind not so much. "What do we have here? Lay it on me."

He listened thoughtfully, looking at each piece as she named it. Quadrangles. Starry Office Day. Yin or Yang, two separate pieces that could be combined into one by artfully rotating them along the hinges of the tacks in the corners. And Jellybeans, a stark charcoal rendering of a masculine hand reaching toward the edge of the paper. "It's an interactive exhibit," she explained, reaching into the bowl beside the drawing. She popped one into her mouth with a smile.

He grinned. He was so goddamn proud of her. Just… literally, blown the fuck away. "Wow, Pam. These are all… seriously amazing," he said appreciatively. He echoed her movements, leaning over and plucking out a pink one. "But this one's my favorite."

She shrugged modestly, flushing at his praise. "Who doesn't love art you can taste?" If he'd noticed the hand was his, he wasn't letting on.

He looked down at his folded hands, chewing thoughtfully. Yeah, he noticed. Smiling warmly, he looked over at her and opened his mouth.

"Pamalama!" came a shout from across the auditorium.

Shit. Jim looked at his watch and stood abruptly, his expression suddenly closed-off. "Thanks for the invitation. I'd better go. Don't wanna… you know. Get towed or anything."

Pam was sure he'd been about to say something else, but the moment was shattered. Along with her heart.

Nodding, she gulped over the massive lump in her throat. "Thanks for coming. Can I give you a ride back to your car? I know how to change a tire."

"Nah. I'm good." Jim limped away, about as far from good as he'd felt in months.

Fuck fuck fuck. 

He wasn't sure whether he was cursing what he'd been about to say, or the fact that he hadn't had a chance to say it, or the hopeful sound of Pam's voice as she offered help that, really, he desperately needed tonight. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," she echoed after his retreating back. "Bye Jim." She cursed Michael and all the gods she'd ever heard of. And a few she made up, for good measure.